The Power of the Press
by also known as LuLu
Summary: The storyteller is the one who holds all of the power...but how reliable is a storyteller, anyway? (CHAPTER ONE! A certain Brooklyn newsie gets a reality check, as does a certain theater owner.)
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Just borrowing…

Author's Notes: This comes from the influence of my fantastic English professor and the fantastic storytelling Henry James. I'm attempting to test the reliability of the first-person narrative. So, your narrator here may be telling the truth, or he may not be…that's for you to decide in upcoming chapters : ) In the meantime, initial feedback is very, very much appreciated, and enjoy!

The Power of the Press

_In 1899, the streets of __New York City__ echoed with the voices of newsies, peddling the newspapers of Joseph Pulitzer, William Randolph Hearst and other giants of the newspaper world. On every street corner you saw 'em, carrying the banner, bringing you the news for a penny a pape. Poor orphans and runaways, the newsies were a ragged army, without a leader, until one day when all that changed…_

That's one way of telling it. 

I mean, you didn't really think there was just that way, did you? The story of the strike has many authors. Lots of interpretations. That happens to be the most popular one, from my recollection, though I'm still not sure why, exactly. I don't think everyone gets a fair shake in that version. There was more to it than Jack Kelly and David Jacobs and their makeshift battle against the big boys. Any boy who lived through that summer can tell you so. I mean, Jack wasn't the only poor boy with a pocketful of dreams and a mouth full of lies. Everyone had their demons. I mean, for one, there was Spot…and poor Race…definitely can't forget what happened to Blink…it was the most important summer of their lives, and that story doesn't even give do them the dignity of glossing over it. And even Jack has more to him than the story they're telling now says.

I guess it's true when they talk about the power of the press. The storyteller is the one with all the power. He's the one you have to believe, no matter what he says, because he's the only one you're hearing it from. It's my turn now to be the storyteller, though, and unlike the others, I plan on telling the truth. The whole truth, even if it kills me. I'm gonna set everyone straight this time.


	2. Coup d'Etat

_Disclaimer:_ The movie characters aren't mine, but those who appear solely in this story are. So please don't take without asking.

_Author's Notes:_ I know, it took me a while, but I'm proud of myself for getting this out. Thank you everyone who has reviewed so far; I wasn't expecting such a strong initial response. I've been doing a lot of planning for this, so expect a lot of interweaving plotlines, and I will try to get chapters out when I can. From here on, our narrator takes a step back and removes himself from the account. Or maybe he doesn't. It all depends on who he really is… (which I don't even know yet).

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Everyone knows that, of course, so I won't sit here and treat you like you're deaf an' dumb. But the problem here is that this is a story of middles. There is no set beginning, and as far as I know, it has yet to end.

But for all intents and purposes, we will begin this story in Brooklyn. I owe at least that much to Spot Conlon.

Now that I've got that all out of the way, here we go.

"Are you sure he ain't gonna wake up?" the first boy, clothed in darkness, asked quietly.

"If you don't shaddup, he will!" the head boy hissed as he bent over the sleeping form. "Now help me out."

"Okay."

"Where'd you get this stuff, anyway?" another asked, holding a sample of it up. "It's expensive, ain't it?"

"I gots a few connections, all right?" the ringleader snarled. "Now shut yer damn mouth and do yer damn job or I'll kick ya out!"

"Fine, fine," the other boy grumbled. "How tight d'ya want it, anyway?"

"Jist tight enough, so it holds, but it don't hurt him enough ta wake him."

Underneath them, the sleeping form stirred.

"For chrissakes!" the head boy muttered. "Slips, Spikes, hold 'im down. I don't care if he wakes up, just make sure he's down. I'll finish the damn job myself."

Slips and Spikes obeyed, stretching their bodies to clamp their hands down over Spot Conlon's wrists and ankles, pinning him to the bed. Spot awoke immediately.

"What the --" he began groggily, before realizing there were people standing over him, keeping a firm hold on him. "What the hell!?" he demanded, looking at the boys. "Slips, Spikes?! What the hell's goin' on here?"

"We'se followin' orders," Spikes almost whimpered. "We'se sorry, Spot."

"_Whose_ orders?" Spot demanded. "I sure as hell didn't give you no orders like this!"

"_I_ gave 'em," the ringleader growled, bending over the bed.

"What the hell d'ya think yer doin', huh, Dragon?"

"What's it look like I'm doin'?" Dragon Caffrey grinned, climbing onto the bed and moving into a position that almost straddled Spot.

"Faggot!" Spot cursed, spitting at him. Dragon flicked the saliva off his face in a simple, fluid motion.

"I don't think yer in the position to be actin' like this, Spotty, ol' boy," the other boy said, his top lip curling into a sneer. "From here on out, Brooklyn's _my territory now."_

Spot began a retort, but Dragon gave him a strong right hook to silence him. 

"Slips, Spikes," he commanded, "don't let him go. You two are keeping watch tonight. I'm gonna get myself some sleep before my big start as leader." Spot's face wrenched out of a pained grimace and into an angry scowl. "Oh, you got somethin' to say, Conlon?" Dragon cupped the boy's chin in his hand and leaned in closely, his breath now hot in Spot's ear. "I suggest you keep your damned mouth shut tonight, 'cause if I get any more trouble from you, I'm gonna throw you into the river."

Pulling back, he climbed off Spot's bed and headed towards his own. Spot held his breath for a few moments, waiting for him to look back at the scene for a final, reassuring check.

Dragon's look did not come. In their beds, the other boys feigned sleep, pretending they had not witnessed the night's events, what seemed to be their leader's downfall.

When she opened the theater at dawn, the last thing Medda had expected was to be met there by a tall, thin man in a long coat and oversized spectacles.

"Marjorie O'Brien?" he asked, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

"Medda Larkson," she corrected as she took the key to the stage entrance of Irving Hall out of her handbag. She had never liked her ex-husband's Mick last name.

"That's not the name we have on the title deed."

"Fine, call me what you want, then," she said hurriedly as she fumbled with the lock. "Who are you?"

"Carl Manske, from Manhattan National Bank."

"What do you need? I'm a busy woman, Mr. Manske, so please be quick."

"I'm here on behalf of the bank to tell you that you're in danger of losing the theater."

Any silence that could have existed between them was broken when Medda's key hit the cement stoop with a tinny clang.

"I-I beg your pardon?" she asked, suddenly feeling very shaky.

"May I come in?" he said. "I would prefer not to discuss this in the middle of an alley.

"Yes, of course…" Medda was surprised she could even grip the doorknob. "Follow me." She led him through the backstage hallway and into a small kitchen. "One of the previous owners lived in the theater, so he had this installed." Her actions, her explanations seemed mechanical to her now, and for now it was the only way for her to keep hold of her composure. "I use it in the mornings for breakfast. Would you like some tea, Mr. Manske?"

"No thank you, Mrs.--"

"--Ms." The correction was reflex, as was reaching for the teapot.

"Ms. O'Brien. I'd like to be brief."

"Fine then." Lighting the stove, she sat down at the round table in the middle of the room, opposite of Mr. Manske. "Now, Mr. Manske, please explain your belief."

"Your most recent payments have been late, if they've come at all, which leads me--and my colleagues at the bank--to assume that your revenue has been…sub-par, so to speak."

"All I missed was one!" Medda protested.

"_Four_, Ms. O'Brien, if you include this month's, which was due yesterday."

"Mr. Manske, you must understand--" The teapot screamed in the background, interrupting her. Without excusing herself, she rose from the table and poured the boiling water into a faded teacup. Going back to her seat, she allowed her fingers to lightly trace over Mr. Manske's arm. "You must understand, it's been a very difficult few months."

"Ms. O'Brien, we can't take that as an excuse."

"Oh?" Medda batted her eyelashes, reaching again for Mr. Manske's arm. This was her only chance. "Perhaps we could work out an…arrangement?"

Mr. Manske cleared his throat, looking slightly flustered. "Are you inferring what I think you are, Ms. O'Brien?"

"I believe I am, Mr. Manske." She leaned in close to him. "But please, call me Medda."

"Ms. O'Brien, this is highly inappropriate." Mr. Manske rose from the table immediately. "I refuse to be part of it." Medda looked flabbergasted. "Please, we must have a payment on our desks by the end of the week, or we will be forced to take the theater from you." Again he adjusted his spectacles. "Don't worry, I'll see myself out."

Just as he had appeared, he was now gone. Medda rested her forehead in her hands and, not knowing what else to do, sobbed.


End file.
